


At the funeral

by melian225



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Animagus, Betrayal, Community: HPFT, F/M, First War with Voldemort, Marauders' Era, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 14:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14498559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melian225/pseuds/melian225
Summary: The funeral of Lily and James Potter, from the point of view of four very different people.





	1. Peter Pettigrew

The scene was a churchyard in a small village, the cemetery quiet in the still morning. Near the middle was a freshly-dug hole, somewhat larger than usual as it was intended to hold two coffins, but in the half-light it looked decidedly eerie. The air was thick with fog, and a superstitious person might have thought that the spirits of the departed were swarming around, as though they were not quite ready to welcome the new additions to their number.

A cracking sound broke the silence, and suddenly a figure appeared behind the church. Even in the half light, it was clear the person was trying to shrink into the background, eager not to be seen. When the light crossed him he was revealed to be a rather short young man, aged maybe twenty-one or two, with rather dirty, colourless hair, watery eyes and a long nose. He was somewhat overweight and his clothes looked like they’d been slept in.

Which indeed they had. In fact, the young man hadn’t changed his clothes for four or five days, and that was apparent. In that time he also hadn’t washed or shaved, and the beginnings of a thin wispy beard had appeared around his chin, but not much – even in that much time, he hadn’t been able to grow more than that.

The young man looked around furtively and, satisfied he hadn’t been spotted, suddenly transformed into a brown rat. The long nose and watery eyes were the same, and a toe was missing on the left front paw where the young man had been missing a finger, but otherwise he was completely unrecognisable as the person who had appeared a moment earlier. In rat form, he scurried around the perimeter of the church, finding a spot near the doors where he could watch without being seen.

After an hour or so the church began to fill up. It was a funeral, the funeral of two young people who had been mown down in cold blood the previous week. Two of the young man’s best friends, in fact. James and Lily Potter.

This funeral was supposed to have been for their son, Harry, as well, but for some reason he hadn’t died as his parents had. The young man – his name was Peter, so we will call him that from now on – couldn’t understand how Harry had survived. He wasn’t supposed to. No one survived when the Dark Lord paid them a personal visit.

Peter watched the crowds build up. People they had known from school, both students and staff, though some of their friends hadn’t made it to the age twenty-one or twenty-two, due to the war. Members of the Order of the Phoenix, the group set up to fight the Dark Lord. Friends and family of both victims, both wizard and Muggle – Lily had been Muggle-born, after all.

He spotted Moony fairly soon after the latter arrived. He looked haggard, unsure of what to do, though perhaps that wasn’t surprising: he had just lost all his best friends in one fell swoop. He hovered around Dumbledore and the other Order members, probably because he didn’t know who else to talk to. Peter, still watching from his hiding spot, felt a pang of regret – this was all his fault, after all. He was the one who had told the Dark Lord where James and Lily were hiding. He was the one who had put the blame on Sirius. He was the one who had betrayed them all.

And it had been a difficult decision, though he doubted any of them would believe that if he told them. But any idiot could see how the war was going, that the Death Eaters and the Dark Lord would end up victorious, and he for one didn’t want to be killed as a traitor when that occurred. And when they approached him they told him as much – if he didn’t co-operate, he could say good-bye to, well, being alive. And he liked life.

Besides, he had to admit it had felt good, knowing he was getting one over the others. Particularly James and Sirius, who had claimed to be his friends all those years but had continually derided him, insulted him, suggested he was lucky they were even talking to him. And for a few years he had agreed with them, but eventually he realised he was worth more than that. He shouldn’t always have to be the butt of their jokes, the cause of their laughter or the subject of their contempt. And Bella, when she had sought him out, had confirmed all that, and promised a spot right up top, in the Dark Lord’s inner circle, when he took over, if Peter did the right thing in the meantime.

For a full year he had pulled it off, pretending to work for the Order while really spying for the Death Eaters, passing on the whereabouts of the Potters and anyone else they wanted information on. The McKinnons, for example – that had been one of his. And Benjy Fenwick. The Dark Lord had been very pleased with his information over the past several months. It had been easy, though – no one took him seriously, so they didn’t watch what they said when he was around.

Even when they knew that there was a spy, and they’d narrowed it down to someone close to the Potters, still no one had suspected it was him. Moony had suspected Padfoot, and Padfoot had suspected Moony. No one even thought Peter was a possibility. Proof that they had underestimated him for all those years.

Well, he’d shown them, he thought. He had been looking at having much more power than any of them had. Particularly now. James dead, Sirius in Azkaban, Remus looking like half the man he was.

Peter had to admit he’d been surprised when Sirius had been sent to Azkaban without a trial. Even he, in his wildest dreams, hadn’t thought it would be that easy. He hadn’t thought Sirius would submit to being taken by the Hit Wizards without a fight, hadn’t thought Dumbledore’s testimony that Sirius had been the Secret Keeper (which of course wasn’t true) would be instrumental in Barty Crouch’s decision to forego the usual procedures in convicting and sentencing prisoners. Peter had been fairly confident Sirius would have been convicted anyway, even with a trial – without being able to produce Peter alive, in human or rat form, Sirius’s argument wasn’t persuasive at all, even to people who might have wanted to believe him.

Of course, the plan had worked well. He’d worked it out with Bella. He would confront Sirius in a public place as though he was the one who had done the chasing (in fact he would just be somewhere blindingly obvious so it was easy for Sirius to find him), and then blow up the street with a Blasting Curse. None of them even knew he could _cast_ a Blasting Curse, that’s how little they thought of him. And then he’d transform into a rat and run off into the sewer while Sirius just stood there in confusion. Cutting off his finger in the process had been Bella’s idea – she said that they needed to find at least a part of him, and while it had been painful it had been well worth it to see the usually unstoppable Sirius Black carted off without even raising a wand in his own defence.

But there was a catch that none of them had anticipated. Yes, the Dark Lord had gone to the Potters’ house on Peter’s information, and yes, he had killed James and then Lily like he planned. But then he tried to kill Harry. A baby. And – no one was completely sure what had happened – it didn’t work. The Dark Lord disappeared instead of Harry. Peter had gone back to the house the following day to try to work out what had gone wrong, but it was swarming with Aurors and members of the Order and he’d barely been able to get in, even as a rat, to see for himself. And in the wreckage that had been Harry’s room, Peter had found a wand that he recognised as belonging to the Dark Lord, but nothing else. He picked it up in his teeth and hurried for a hiding-place, just in time as the Auror Moody came into the room and may have caught a glimpse of his tail as he scurried off.

But now, it was James and Lily’s funeral, and everything had changed. Peter was confused, unsure what to do. His triumph at getting one over everyone who had laughed at and derided him over the years was tempered with doubt as to whether he had made the right decision. At the time it had seemed right, as it was clear which way the war was going and he did want to survive it. But now, with the Dark Lord gone, it looked like maybe the Order had won after all. He’d picked the wrong side. And he couldn’t show his face again, not considering he was supposed to be a tragic martyr for the Order, killed when he chased down his much stronger, more talented, more powerful friend in a fit of righteous anger brought on by the ultimate betrayal.

He looked at the crowded church. James and Lily had been popular and the turnout was larger than even he had thought it might be. The service would be starting soon, so if he wanted to see it he would have to creep into the church very shortly so he wasn’t locked out. Looking around to check if anyone would notice if he did it now – even though only Moony knew his Animagus form, it was still a risk – he noticed someone else skulking in the shadows, trying to watch without being seen. Even from this distance, Peter could recognise who he was sure was a fellow Death Eater. Severus Snape.

Snape. His presence distracted Peter momentarily as he wondered what on earth he was doing here. Everyone knew he hated James with a passion, he was probably cheering that he was dead. And while he’d been friends with Lily in their early years at school, she hadn’t spoken to him since that day in fifth year when he’d called her a Mudblood, so it could hardly be for her. Maybe he just wanted proof that James Potter was actually dead. It would fit his character as Peter knew it.

In any case, Snape kept lurking in the background as Peter scurried into the church, just in time as the doors were closed a minute or so later. He wasn’t really used to Muggle ceremonies so he wasn’t sure what to expect, and he didn’t really listen as the churchman spoke a few words about James and Lily that did nothing but prove he didn’t know them. It wasn’t until Dumbledore got up to talk that the tension that had been in the room started to dissipate and the tears started flowing in earnest. Even the men, those who never cried, were succumbing. Dumbledore could have that effect on people.

As he watched, Peter could feel the self-doubt gnawing at him. Here he was at the funeral of two of his best friends, and it was his fault they were dead. Another of their best friends was in prison for the crime and for Peter’s “murder”, neither of which he actually committed. And the last of their group, Remus, was clearly lost – he had lost not only his friends but also with James his source of income, and with his lycanthropy he would in all likelihood have great difficulty find a job, so he was to all intents and purposes sentenced to a life of poverty. All these lives either taken or ruined, and it was all Peter’s doing. And for what? For the favour of the Dark Lord, a man who had now disappeared into nothingness, who it seemed would now _not_ lead the wizarding world.

Was it the wrong decision? Possibly. But, Peter realised, he was too far in now, he couldn’t turn back. There was really only one option still open to him, and it was to wait and see. No one knew what had happened to the Dark Lord, so it was just possible that he might return one day. And he, Peter, would have to bide his time until that happened.

As the crowd filed out of the church and into the cemetery towards the burial plot, Peter came to a decision. He would spend his time as a rat, which was the only way he could ensure he wasn’t found to be alive after all. He would go to the Ministry and choose a witch or wizard to catch a lift with to their house, in the hope he might be adopted as a pet. Probably one with shabby-looking robes, so they were less likely to seek a pet in the pet stores and more likely to adopt a stray they found. And one with children who might like a pet rat. It would take some research but he could do it, and all he had to do was make sure they didn’t know Moony, because he was the only person still alive (and not in Azkaban) who might possibly recognise him.

And then, he’d wait. If there was any hint of the Dark Lord getting powerful again, he’d re-join him immediately and with any luck be welcomed back as faithful supporter. It was better than nothing and, he concluded, it was also the only option he had left.


	2. Remus Lupin

On the day of James and Lily’s funeral Remus arrived at the church feeling numb all over. In the course of a week his whole world had changed, and one of the people he had thought he knew best in the world had been revealed as the worst kind of traitor. Life as he knew it would never be the same, and he wasn’t sure how he was going to face it. It had been difficult enough getting up that morning, making sure he went through the routine of showering, shaving, having some breakfast, finding clean clothes that didn’t look like he’d slept in them or ripped them to pieces during a full moon - especially now he didn’t have anyone around to encourage him, and he didn’t know how he was going to continue that charade in the weeks, months, years to come. And then, to top things off, the full moon was only a couple of days off now, which made him feel even worse. Another reason he still needed his friends – the ones who were never coming back.

James had been his saviour, of course. He understood that lycanthropy was a curse that would significantly impact on Remus’ future potential, and with that sizable inheritance he was able to offer a lifeboat, financially at least. Remus hadn’t been thrilled with the prospect of living off someone else’s charity – like Sirius had done five years earlier, he appreciated the gesture and took it while there were no other options, but he yearned for a windfall like Sirius’ which meant that he would be able to support himself. After all, he wanted to retain just a small amount of personal dignity.

But thinking like that meant that he was thinking about Sirius. And that was the problem. Remus didn’t like thinking about Sirius any more. He had thought he knew him, had loved him like a brother, just as he loved James and Peter, but the Sirius he knew was apparently not the real person. A charade, a pseudonym, however you wanted to describe it, all he knew was that Sirius had lied and spied and betrayed them all.

He still had trouble believing it. Yes, he had come to the conclusion that Sirius was the spy, but that was because there weren’t really any other options. But he had never really, in his heart of hearts, believed it was true. Sirius had always been so forthright about that sort of thing, had sworn black and blue from the age of fourteen that he would die for his friends, and there had never been any inkling at all that that had really changed. Maybe it had all been a lie and he’d always been untrustworthy – but Remus had trouble believing that too. Sirius was so open, so genuine, that the idea of that being an act was just too preposterous to be convincing. Be that as it may, however, the evidence that there was indeed a spy was weighty and persuasive and it obviously wasn’t James or Lily, because they were the ones being threatened. And he couldn’t see it being Peter, doting, loyal Peter, so that left Sirius. But he had never convinced James not to trust Sirius, probably because a part of him had still trusted Sirius himself, and now look where that had got them.

Yes, he had considered, at an intellectual level, that it probably was Sirius who was passing on information, but until the proof was before him like that he’d never, deep down inside him, truly believed it. But this was definitely proof – the two coffins at the front of the church. They would have been burying Peter today, as well, but there hadn’t been a body to bury: the biggest piece of him they found once Sirius had finished with him was a solitary finger. Remus smiled despite himself – Sirius never had known where to stop, subtlety not being one of his traits. Anyway, there would be a memorial service tomorrow, in Nottingham where Peter’s mother lived, so once they were done here there would be a group all Apparating north at the same time.

Remus sighed to himself, lost in memories. They had been inseparable, the four of them – Remus, James, Sirius and Peter. Best of friends at school, they had been just as close after graduation, and James’ marriage to Lily, and the birth of their son, had if anything strengthened the bond they all shared. Even when it became clear that James and Lily were being targeted by Voldemort, they had stuck together like glue, each using the others as building blocks for their own strength. Separation didn’t lessen their friendship, nor distance, nor the war itself. The only thing that was going to keep them apart, it had seemed, was death.

And death it turned out to be, in its cruellest and most selfish form. One of them had sold information to the enemy, for whatever reason Remus wasn’t sure, but it was probably to do with Sirius’ own future. Not only had Voldemort found them, but in doing so he had bypassed the most difficult security features even Dumbledore could come up with. And he had just swanned into the cottage here in Godric’s Hollow and cast an _Avada Kedavra_ at James and then at Lily, before turning to Harry. The baby.

The baby who, for whatever reason, couldn’t be killed. Something no one, not even Dumbledore, could fully explain. The baby who should have been brought up surrounded by love and friendship and had now been dumped with Lily’s sister, the one who hated magic, to be raised there.  Remus would have liked to do it himself, to look after Harry in memory of his parents, but Dumbledore wouldn’t allow it, saying that the boy needed to be with his closest relatives. And in hindsight that was probably a better idea anyway – Remus was going to have enough trouble supporting himself without worrying about a toddler as well. And who would have looked after the boy during the full moon every month? No, Remus thought, he was definitely not a good or appropriate person to raise a child.

He looked around at the slowly filling church. He recognised a few people – members of the Order, people from school, a girl who looked like Lily’s description of her sister. But he couldn’t talk to any of them – the pain and shock he was suffering was still too raw and he was having enough trouble getting his head around it all in the first place without articulating that to anyone. He wanted to stay close to Dumbledore, who was even at his advanced age a strong enough authority figure for people to give them space.

Suddenly the service began, taking him by surprise, and it proved to be just as difficult to get through as he had anticipated. James and Lily Potter had been very popular and a lot of people wanted to pay their respects. In addition, the fact that Voldemort had met his downfall at their house meant that a lot more wanted to thank them for ending the war – apparently literally hundreds of strangers had expressed a desire to attend, and it was only by public request from Dumbledore via the _Daily Prophet_ that most of them had stayed away. And still the church was filled, those in attendance representing the entire British wizarding world in paying their respects.

Remus found his mind wandering as they followed the parson outside to the graveyard for the burials. James and Lily were to be buried in the same hole, together in death as they had been in life, going to the afterlife hand in hand. Harry, of course, was the sole heir, and Remus would have expected no less, but he wasn’t sure how he was going to live now his source of income had died. He had enough gold to last maybe another week but no more, and he wasn’t going to ask anyone else for help. He still had that much dignity left.  Even if it meant he starved, he wasn’t going to hold his hand out to anyone.

He was comforted by the tall figure of Dumbledore next to him by the gravestones. At least Dumbledore was always there to talk to, he was someone who really understood the limitations of lycanthropy and could offer practical advice on how to deal with it. He wondered, though, what would become of the Order now the war was over – they couldn’t fight Voldemort any more if there was no Voldemort to fight, so he assumed the organisation would be disbanded and everyone would go their separate ways. Back to their family and friends.

Well, Remus no longer had any friends. Not real ones, not like James, and Peter and … well, Sirius hadn’t really been a friend, but it had _felt_ like he was. As for family, well his mother was dead, and he would have to be on death’s door before he would impose himself on his father. Sure, Lyall Lupin was always happy to see him, but Remus refused to put his father’s peaceful existence in danger by spending too much time with him.

So he was effectively left with no one. The only person left alive who he had been at all close to, who had known he was a werewolf and hadn’t abandoned him because of that, was the reason they were all there, so it was obvious that no matter how close he thought they’d been he’d never really known Sirius at all. And so, nothing to look forward to, no one to turn to, no one to understand. He couldn’t rely on Dumbledore all the time; the man had a school to run on top of everything else.

Suddenly he noticed the parson was looking at him expectantly, and realised that he was expected to start shovelling dirt onto the coffins, which were now in place in the grave. As the one closest to James and Lily, the only one left of their band of brothers, it was his prerogative to start the process off. And he would do it manually, without magic, glad of the physical labour which would make him feel even a little bit more human.

Remus sighed as he deposited the first shovelful of dirt in the hole. Life, as he had once known it, was completely over, and it was all up to him to try to make the most of what little he still had.


	3. Severus Snape

He stood in shadows, within sight of the door of the church but hidden enough to be inconspicuous. After all, if he was spotted he would have trouble explaining why he was here at all. It wasn’t like he had any affection for Potter in the slightest, and no one would understand about Lily.

It was for her, of course, that he had come here today, to their funeral. Even though she’d stopped speaking to him more than five years ago, even though she had chosen Potter and even had his child, he couldn’t stay away. Everything he’d done had been for her.

It was a horrible quirk of fate, what had happened. He had gone to the Dark Lord with important information about a prophecy, which laid out the details of the birth of a child who might one day overthrow him. Even though he hadn’t heard it all, it had still been far too important to not pass on – anything or anyone who could bring down the Dark Lord certainly had to be disposed of. And if the parents were in the way, then they could go too: he hadn’t given that much thought, if he was honest with himself. He had never realised that it could be, in any way, shape or form, about _her_.

When he had made the horrible discovery that the Dark Lord’s interpretation of the prophecy meant it was her son being targeted, he had done everything he could to ensure her survival. He had used his position as confidante of the Dark Lord to try to spare her life, and had even approached Dumbledore to try to find ways to save her. Anything, he had said, and he’d meant it – he would have done anything for her.

But it had all been in vain. He wasn’t completely sure what had happened but he knew that she had died and the Dark Lord had indeed fallen. Any other information was immaterial, even the news that it was Black who had betrayed them. Well, he reasoned, that was hardly a surprise – while Black had professed to detest everything the Death Eaters stood for, the Dark Lord would have given him one sniff of a bit of power and he would have swapped sides. Power would always do that to a person. Anyway Black was now locked in Azkaban for the deed, so that was good riddance to bad rubbish. Closet Death Eater or not, he had no time for people like that.

All that mattered was that she was gone. He had loved her since he was a child, and it had grown in intensity as he had grown into a man, even when she rejected him and chose someone else. Even when she married the person who was possibly his worst enemy, still he had loved her. His Patronus even matched hers, that was how deep his passion went. All his happiest memories were connected with her.

He wasn’t sure what he felt now. Despair, obviously, because even when she had been married to Potter he had known she was alive and maybe even happy, and as long as she lived then there was always the possibility that the marriage wouldn’t work out and she might consider him again. Now, there was no hope at all.

Pain, confusion and frustration were also there, in equal doses. And regret featured fairly prominently, especially considering that he had promised Dumbledore all sorts of things that he wasn’t completely sure he could fulfil. If he needed to fulfil them at all now, of course, as with the Dark Lord gone the opportunities to act as a spy against him would be few and far between.

He couldn’t avoid Dumbledore, though, not now he had that job at the school. And while it was a good job and he was able to mould young minds and potentially guide them to become exceptional potioneers, he was a little uncomfortable being there with the promise he had made to the Headmaster. It was, however, a job, and one that meant he needn’t return to the old house at Spinner’s End for more than a couple of months a year.

Not going home had definitely been a selling point for the position, he realised. Most of his memories of that place were miserable, due to his cruel and bullying father, and those that were good were all centred around Lily. And, right now, that was too painful to think about.

Yes, he thought, it was all his fault. If he hadn’t told the Dark Lord about the prophecy, then the Potter child would never have been targeted and she would still be alive. But she was dead, lying in a coffin that was probably somewhere inside the church, and he was entirely to blame.

And he would have to live with that knowledge for the rest of his life.

His attention was diverted by a virtual procession of mourners outside the church, with what looked like hundreds of people making their way through the big wooden doors. Some he recognised from the school, either staff or students who had been there during his time, while others were undoubtedly from the Order of the Phoenix. And a number who he didn’t recognise at all, leaving him unsure whether they were friends and acquaintances she had picked up since her marriage or simply well-wishers, people who wanted to pay their respects to the family who had somehow defeated the Dark Lord. He supposed that, now, it didn’t matter.

He longed to go inside, to be part of the mourning and tears, but he knew it wasn’t appropriate. And no one except Dumbledore would even know why he was there, he realised – while he and Lily had been friends in the beginning, she’d barely spoken to him after that day at the end of fifth year when he’d called her a Mudblood. That had been the beginning of the end, of course, the worst day of his life up until a few days ago, but he wouldn’t dwell on that now. The thing was, they were friends for five years and now had not been friends for five years, so even if he did say that he was attending for her sake no one would believe him.

No, it was his lot to suffer in silence. He had never been one to show his emotions freely; that was for weak minded people who didn’t have the patience or ability to mask their feelings. Snapes most certainly did not wear their hearts on their sleeves. It was something he had always derided Potter about, that inability to hide his innermost feelings, because if a person couldn’t apply themselves enough to do _that_ successfully, then how could you trust them to achieve anything else? That definitely displayed a weakness of character that he had no intention of ever emulating.

He shifted subtly, moving his weight from one foot to the other in an effort to become more comfortable. He was reasonably confident he hadn’t been spotted in his hiding place, but he was conscious of the fact that the doors of the church would be closing soon and he would have to find another spot within view of the graveyard for the final chapter of this saga. His eyes scanned the surrounding area, looking for what would be the most inconspicuous way to get around the side of the church.

Even the wind had died down by now, and the only noise was the scuttling of a rat across the roadway towards the open church door. Almost time, he realised, for the large wooden doors to close and the service to begin. He hadn’t missed the symbolism of the occasion, of the door closing on that part of his life, and a grim expression set on his face as he started to move from his vantage point.

Once around the side of the church and within view of the graveyard, he baulked. Surely this couldn’t be right? They were burying two people today, not one. He allowed himself to get closer so he could reassure himself that there was indeed a mistake. But no, it seemed, they would be sharing a grave – even in death he couldn’t wrench her away from that accursed Potter. The headstone proved that.

He felt a tear trailing down his cheek and wiped it away impatiently. Shedding tears was showing emotion, and that would never do. Why did it have to end this way, he thought furiously. It was never supposed to be like this. She was supposed to recognise his devotion and return it, looking with wonder at the power and influence he had achieved within the Death Eaters, not shun him and permanently attach herself to Potter, in death as well as in life. She was supposed to realise that he worshipped her more than Potter ever could, that he would have done anything for her, that he would have made her a princess and ensured that this war would never even touch her. She was supposed to be his shining light in what was certainly a complicated world.

She was supposed to love him.

He brushed away another tear, fuming at himself for this unacceptable display of emotion, even if there was no one to witness it. This was intolerable behaviour from him. Tearing himself away from the open grave, he skulked off to a shadowy area underneath an ancient oak, relying on the darkness and his own black clothes to shield him from any wandering eyes. They would be coming out soon, he realised, and even with Potter there he had to see it, had to be there for it. Once it was over he’d Apparate back to the school so no one discovered he’d been gone. There would be little or no possibility of return on another day to visit the graves, he recognised. This was the only chance he’d have to say goodbye.


	4. Sirius Black

The day dawned grey and foreboding, the harsh skies over the North Sea showing that winter was on its way. Sirius woke early as he always did in this place, unable to sleep through the increasingly oppressive air that this quantity of Dementors invariably brought, and while his cell had no windows he knew instinctively that the sun had only just crept above the eastern horizon.

He hated Azkaban, but he knew he deserved to be there. He was clearly to blame for the fact James and Lily were now dead, and how it had happened. How had he not realised Peter was the spy? Why on earth had he thought it might have been Moony? Whatever possessed him to convince James and Lily to use someone else as a Secret Keeper? Because, if he was honest with himself, the only person that he had known for sure, with one hundred percent certainty, was loyal and reliable and definitely _not_ the spy, the only person who he absolutely and completely knew fit that description, was himself.

It would have been the perfect blind, of course, making Peter the Secret Keeper to Lily’s Fidelius Charm. No one would ever have suspected that they would bestow so great an honour on a weak pitiful creature like him. But it had all backfired, and it was all Sirius’ fault because it had been his idea. And now Lily and James were dead, paying the ultimate price for their work fighting against the Death Eaters, and he had it hanging on his conscience.

Of course, he would have preferred to have a trial before being sent here. A forum to tell his version of events, even if he understood that the chances of anyone actually believing it would be slim. Even Dumbledore had believed that he, Sirius, was the Secret Keeper – not telling anyone at all about the switch was part of the plan. After all, the less people who knew about it meant that there was less chance of the Death Eaters finding out and going after Peter. Because, Sirius had reasoned at the time, that was the weakest point of the plan, if anyone found out it was Peter, because he’d not been convinced that Peter would stand up under pressure like that.

And that had been correct, in a way. Peter hadn’t been able to stand up under pressure. Sirius just hadn’t realised when the pressure had initially been exerted. It had to be a while ago, though – the spy had been passing information on James and Lily’s movements to the Death Eaters for at least a year before they were finally found.

Sirius swore in frustration. Even with a trial, he would still have been here. Without being able to produce a living Peter Pettigrew, his story had no legs at all. And Peter was probably living it up as a rat at the moment, even if he was unable to return to human form – at least in the short term – because he was supposed to be Sirius’ third victim. In any case he was still alive and in all likelihood enjoying life … unlike Sirius. He was now doomed to die in his cell, imprisoned on a rock in middle of the ocean, with no end in sight to the dull greyness of the cell and suffocating closeness of the Dementors. A life where he would never be happy again.

Yes, he thought as he looked around the empty cell that he must now call home, the day was turning out to be just the same as all the other days, with no deviation to differentiate them from each other and the anger and self-loathing he felt never varying. He didn’t even know how long he had been there – sometimes he thought it was only a few days, but other times he was convinced it was at least a month. A bland, pitiful excuse for breakfast was brought to him, he was permitted a wet cloth to wash himself with, and if he was lucky he might hear some of the other prisoners attempting to talk to each other through the walls of their cells. After all, it was the only human contact he had these days.

As it turned out, however, that day _was_ different. Later in the day some new arrivals were being brought in, which meant that they would be brought past his cell, writhing in their binds and swearing at their captors. Sirius heard them coming and so made sure he was looking out for them, desperate for the sight of another human being, even if they were Death Eaters. People he hated on principle, no matter what else they did or who they had been before they signed up.

And, that day, one of them he knew. Mulciber from school, who noticed him as he was dragged past and smirked triumphantly at him.

“Black!” he gloated, shouting over his shoulder as he shuffled further down the corridor. “Big day for your lot today! Too bad you were stuck here, means you couldn’t go to dear Potter’s funeral and admire your handiwork … ”

That was all he heard, but those few words were enough to crush Sirius even more. Today must have been the day James and Lily were being buried. The best friends he’d ever had, and he wasn’t even able to be there to farewell them, couldn’t even pay his respects to two of the few people who had always treated him as him, not as a blood purity snob or blood traitor, based on his surname. Two of the people he had loved most in the world.

Not that he could remember why he had loved them, not now. After all, those were happy memories, and the Dementors stationed outside his cell day and night ensured that he had no happy memories left. No, all he had left was the guilt, the anger and the self-loathing. How could he not have seen it was Peter? Peter, who had always hung around those who were more powerful and talented than himself. Peter, who looked to others for protection and support.  Peter, whose Animagus form was a rat, for God’s sake! Surely that should have been a clue? The fury and anger he felt towards himself hadn’t dissipated one iota in the time he’d been locked away.

Yes, it always came back to that. No matter what he forced into his mind to occupy his thoughts, they always returned to Peter and what he had done. Though, if Sirius was honest with himself, there was a tiny bit of admiration in there as well – after all, no one had even considered that Peter might even be capable of what he had pulled off, so he was obviously smarter than he’d let on all those years. Or maybe some of James’ and Sirius’ smarts had rubbed off on him; he couldn’t rule that out as a possibility. But Peter was always there, at the bottom of everything, ready to come back into his mind when he was least ready for it and when the self-loathing was bound to return stronger than ever. It was easy to understand why there were so many deaths in this place, because the effect of the Dementors meant that any thoughts of self harm or worse came right to the surface. It was only because he could become a dog whenever it got to be too much that he hadn’t succumbed to that sort of thing himself.

Peter. Sirius wondered idly what he had done today. Had he been triumphant in the burial of his most famous victims? Had he spent the day with his fellow Death Eaters glorying in his victory? Or was there some guilt there, perhaps even some self-loathing of his own for his role in the deaths of James and Lily, the wrongful imprisonment of Sirius, and the abandonment of Remus? Particularly now Voldemort had fallen, and it appeared Peter had thrown his lot in with the wrong side. Well, Sirius would fix that. If he ever got out of here, Peter had better watch his step, because Sirius would be dogging him to his death.

Pun intended.

Sirius punched the wall in frustration. While he was undeniably getting weaker due to the woefully inadequate diet provided to prisoners, he still had enough strength left to loosen a couple of small stones in the ancient wall. Not that he thought he might be able to escape from here through thumping a hole in his cell, but it was still good for fending off the frustration and anger he felt. What sort of world was it that allowed Peter to be out there, free and alive, when he, Sirius, was locked up in here for a crime that Peter committed? That allowed James and Lily to be killed in cold blood like that, that allowed someone like Voldemort to get as powerful as he was? He punched the wall again, grimacing at the pain but relishing it as one of the few feelings he could still access. Why could he not fight back? Somewhere deep inside himself he knew that he should be able to, but that was probably linked to happy memories as well so that was why he couldn’t access it.

Another punch, and he saw with satisfaction some more dust loosened from the crevices in the stone. Why (punch) could (punch) he not (punch) attend the funeral (another punch, extra hard this time) of his best friends (punch)?

Blood was streaming down his knuckles now and the pain was getting more and more intense, but he paid it little heed. What did a potentially broken hand matter? In the greater scheme of things it was a pittance, a minor irritation but nothing else. Not when two of the best people the world had ever known were being laid to eternal rest, because of the sneaking betrayal of someone they had loved and trusted. Someone they had thought was their friend.

No, it was all down to Peter. Sirius growled in anger and considered turning into a dog to get a more satisfactory noise out. Peter. If Sirius ever got out of this place, Peter had better run and hide if he had any idea what was good for him. There would be no rest until this was atoned for. It was the only thing he had to look forward to.

 


End file.
